Conviction of Innocence
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Alfred is convicted for a crime he did not do and is pushed into jail. There, he meets Kiku, Matthew, and Arthur, and forms an unlikely friendship.


**Conviction of Innocence**

**Synopsis: Alfred is convicted for a crime he did not do and is pushed into jail. There, he meets Kiku, Matthew, and Arthur, and forms an unlikely friendship. **

**Genre: Crime, Friendship**

**Pairings: None**

**Characters: America (Alfred F Jones), Canada (Matthew Williams), Japan (Kiku Honda), and England (Arthur Kirkland)**

**Rating: T**

**A/N: I don't know everything about prison, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. This is a human AU, a one-shot, I don't own Hetalia, and I hope you enjoy. **

* * *

"NO! NO LET ME GO! PLEASE, I'M INNOCENT!" The new prisoner cried, lashing out. The guards grunted and tossed him into his cell. He skidded across the floor. They locked him up, pushing in his new, stripped uniform. The prisoner grabbed the bars and pressed his face, snot and tear-stained, against them. He continued to blubber, begging for mercy, promising atonement. They ignored him, casting warning glances at the other prisoners. The other roamed back into their cells and into their hard beds, ignoring the man's pleas.

Eventually the prisoner grew tired of hollering. He pulled off his torn clothing. Dried blood stains, brown and metallic, coated it like a pattern. He looked at it dolefully and shoved them beneath his bed. The lights clicked off and he dressed in the dark. His number stood out, like a pale star due to its chalky white color; 10467. He fell asleep.

The next day, when they were called for breakfast, he had calmed his hysterics and was instead coated in a thin layer of cocky, foolish self-esteem. However, that was only in his speech. Anyone who dared touch him would send him into a twitchy, angry fit. He hardly spoke to anyone unless they asked him something, and then he would boast loudly, bringing a wave of optimism coming down on the questioner who only wanted to know if he had a cigarette on him. His name was Alfred, the word spread around, and he was no weakling. The way he folded into himself and screamed at night, awoken by terrible nightmares, had made the few prisoners around him groan, knowing this would be a _long_ night. However, when he set to chopping lumber, the rocky muscles on his arms and tough chest stood out, even in the drab uniform.

"I wonder what he's convicted for," a bulky man with one eye asked the prisoner next to him. The prisoner looked over at Alfred, picking at the beans on his plate. He shrugged.

"I would imagine with the way he was screaming that it's something pretty bad."

The bulky one nodded, "Kiku, I'd reckon he didn't do anything with the way he was screaming." He made a raspy, coughing sound that Kiku presumed was a laugh.

"I'm going to go talk to him. He's only been here for a week, I think he's settled, but he could use some friends."

"Friends…" Someone scoffed.

Alfred looked up from his broth. Kiku sat in front of him. Kiku had a round, soft face, dark eyes and darker hair. Hardly criminal material. But then again, neither was Alfred.

"Hey," Alfred said.

Kiku set his tray in front of him and continued to eat. "So, you're Alfred?"

"Yeah, and you are?"

"Kiku, Kiku Honda. What are you in for?"

"I accidentally killed someone," Alfred muttered, looking uncomfortable. "I got in a drunken fight, blacked out, and next thing I know they're throwing me into this hellhole."

Kiku smirked. He liked Alfred already.

"What about you?" Alfred bit into the stale bread. He wanted to spit it out, but with the gruel that's usually served in the morning, he wanted every bit of food he could get, no matter how terribly dry.

"I ran a black market, selling some things that aren't too legal," Kiku said.

They fell silent, the room filled with the clatter of spoons and low murmurings.

Alfred spoke up, moving on to his own beans, dressed in unsavory, watery sauce. "So like drugs?"

"No, that's Matthew over there." Kiku said, pointing to a mousy man behind him. He tapped Matthew on the shoulder and he looked up. Heavy bags dragged his eyes down. "Come sit here, meet the newbie, Alfred."

Matthew nodded and quietly turned over to sit by them. He nibbled his food, looking at Alfred straight in the eyes.

"Okay so you're Matthew and you sold drugs?" Alfred felt slightly uncomfortable. But in prison, he came to realize there was no conversation outside of the past.

Matthew nodded, "Yeah, everything from Mary Jane to the real dangerous stuff." His voice was low, but gruff and charred.

"Then what did you see, exactly?" Alfred turned to Kiku, but another man slid in by them. He smiled faintly at Kiku who nodded to him.

Kiku sighed, dabbing whatever juices remained on his plate with the slice of bread. "That's Arthur, say hello Arthur, this is Alfred, accidentally killed a man out of a drunk fit."

Arthur showed off his uneven, yellow teeth at Alfred in a grin. His yellow hair fell into his green eyes and he brushed them away.

Kiku noticed Alfred's incessant looks and decided to answer, "Fine, I sold prostitutes. Male, female, neither, both, you name it I got it. Well, I had it. I didn't mess with them, though, meaning I never used them. But I guess running a business that sold stolen goods, men and women ready to sell their bodies to anyone with money, and a very small dosage of food was enough to sentence me to thirty years."

"How long have you been in here?" Alfred said, directing it at all three of them at the table.

"Ten years," Kiku looked upwards at the grey ceiling, as though reminiscing some good times.

"A year," Matthew shrugged, "give or take. I still have about ten left… Give or take."

"And you?" Alfred looked at Arthur, "What did you do to get in here?"

"I'm innocent," Arthur replied, "But I've been here for three years. I have a life sentence ahead of me."

The other sniggered. Alfred felt annoyed but shrugged it off. "Man, I got a real good life back home. I had a real nice job, lots of friends, and now I'm here for what? A billion years?… This sucks." He jumped slightly when Arthur touched his shoulder. He looked over, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Look," Arthur removed his hand, "You'll be fine. Find something. At least you didn't rape anyone."

He shot a glance at the back corner, where a group of shady man sat, out-casted by everyone.

"Even the dirtiest murderers here hate those bastards," Kiku said, disgusted.

"I can see why," Alfred nodded.

Matthew rose to his feet. The warden came through, shouting at them. "Get off your lazy asses and get back to work, do something good for a change!"

The four went out to collect rock, break them down, chop lumber, amongst other things. With aching limbs, burning not from the work but from the monotony of it, the prisoners dragged themselves into the yard to stand around. Alfred caught up with his newfound friends.

Unlike the others, he was pumped. The prison hadn't touched him quite yet.

They stood aro a single cigarette Matthew had weaseled out of a guard who had a soft spot for lost causes. Kiku blew a smoke ring, into Matthew's face, and handed the thin stick to Alfred. Alfred looked at them, and Arthur nodded, leaning against the brick wall. He placed it in his mouth, feeling faintly sick. He had never smoked before. After a minute Matthew snatched it from his mouth.

"Enough there, or else you'll be arrested for taking more than you can handle." He chuckled dryly.

Alfred smiled apologetically. No one returned it, hardly any lips twitched.

Kiku crossed his arms, watching Matthew savor the sweet, burning sensation.

Arthur was called over by someone in the crowd, a beefy hand waving above all the heads. He pushed off the wall, walking over grouchily.

"Okay, so what exactly is he in for?" Alfred said, eyeing the Brit slink away, merging with the crowd.

"Murder. Not just that, he was a mass murderer and a serial killer," Matthew said. "He doesn't tell anyone anymore, though. Kiku's been in here the longest, he knows how to get anyone to spill."

"Oh wow…" Alfred rubbed his nape, refusing a drag. Kiku shrugged and continued smoking. Bluish clouds curled up his cheek bones before vanishing into the air. The sky was bleak and bending inwards.

"Couldn't tell just by looking at him, could you?" Matthew said, "He looks so nice."

"He does. Why did he kill?"

"Why? Who knows? Who? He killed everyone he got close to and had to run away. They eventually caught him, his hands around some blonde guy in Paris. I guess he gets pleasure out of it. He finds someone who amuses him and offs them. Usually he chokes, sometimes he beats… he likes his hands. I don't think he's every even touched a gun."

"Wait… Wouldn't he kill someone here?" Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"No," Kiku shook his head, "He hadn't killed anybody for three years before they found him in France. He hasn't even touched anyone besides you since he came here."

Alfred gingerly placed his fingertips against the ghost of Arthur's touch, on his shoulder. He swallowed.

Kiku burst out into cruel laughter.

"Relax," Matthew shook his head, "He won't kill you. He might seem like he would, but he couldn't—wouldn't. They imprisoned him at first for that one crime, for fifty years, and then they saw that the Frenchman wasn't his first or only victim, and they extended his imprisonment to a lifetime."

"I see."

A guard edges closer and Matthew dropped the cigarette, squishing it with his shoe, smothering the flame. The guard came by, a balding man with a sneer of having too much power plastered across his face. He leaned over and sniffed Matthew loudly. Matthew froze up.

"Smoke…? Have you been smoking again, Mr. Druggie?"

"Nothing bad, just tobacco," Matthew said.

"Just tobacco, _sir_," The guard spat.

"Oh are we using formalities with me now?" He instantly regretted that. The guard grabbed Matthew's shoulder and tugged him into the building. "Two days for that comeback, Williams."

Kiku winced as the doors slammed. A hush had flooded the yard. Someone muttered; "God, I couldn't handle two hours in _there_."

Alfred bit his lip.

"He's being taken to the Hellhole, the real one. Pray that you'll never go in there, son." An elderly man said, noticing Alfred's confusion. "No light, no food—unless you're there for more than a week—and nothing but your own insanity to keep you comfort."

Alfred bit his lip harder.

"Oh boy, but Matthew was so quiet…"

"Exactly," Kiku said, "He never talks back, unless it's Mr. Polestuckupmyass, or Goldfield."

"Hardly golden…" a scrawny one said. A group had gathered around Kiku.

"Well, Matthew hates that guy. He'll break out of his shell to bite back, no matter the consequences. Usually they're physical stuff, and Matthew can handle it. He was a pro Hockey player some time ago, but that's the first time to the Hellhole." Kiku said, looking back at the doors.

A whistle sounded, calling them back indoors.

The next few weeks continued as such. Breakfast, a mixture of gruel and dirty water, work out in the field, lunch, some free time, work, dinner, lights out. Matthew came back, lapsing into total silence and hardly daring to even look at a cigarette. It was like some sort of twisted boarding school infested with rats.

The rats, Alfred hated them.

Slick, slimy, black bodies squirming in every hole, seeking some food from the already starved men. They bit at anyone, but scrambled back into their holes, to hiss and have their reddish eyes gleam in the darkness. A young boy, just old enough to be in prisoner rather than a juvenile establishment, was bitten by one in the rear end. He screamed loud enough to call attention. He was taken away, luckily enough, before a real infection could set in.

Alfred hardly counted the days anymore, and was growing very bored very fast.

"How do you guys not kill yourselves from boredom?" He whined over breakfast.

"We have hobbies," Arthur said, "I, personally, collect unused sticks and chip them into little figurines. I've gotten pretty good." He pulled out a small figure of a horse's head from his pocket. "I'm making a sort of mural to send to my niece back home." He smiled fondly and tucked it away.

"I paint," Kiku said, "I had some good connections back home. My brother sent me a set of watercolor paints and papers about five years ago. It's lasted, mostly because I work slowly. I can show you them sometime, I only have ten done, two a year. I think that's good enough."

Matthew said nothing.

"Don't you write letters that are never sent anywhere?" Arthur asked. Matthew nodded.

"So, find yourself a hobby, Alfred." Kiku said.

That is exactly what Alfred set out to do for the next few days. He had no one send in anything of use to color or paint with. He decided he wouldn't be any good, however, when he visited Kiku. On some days, when the warden was in a good enough mood, they had a sort of "free-time". Alfred visited Kiku and watched him work with intense concentration on his latest painting; a picture of a geisha on a wooden bridge. Her pale hand was outstretched, letting go of cherry blossoms that fell into the river below. Behind her was a sketch of a temple of some kind, surrounded by trees and plants. At the end of the river was a rising moon, a crescent from what Alfred could tell by the faint outline. Kiku brought out his ten others; most were heavily laden with Japanese culture; from tea sets to the streets of Tokyo. However, others consisted of futuristic cities. One showed people walking across a street suspended miles above the ground. It glowed a liquid blue, painting the gleaming cars and buildings below it turquoise.

"You're amazing," Alfred said. Kiku nodded, bending his head back down to work.

Arthur let Alfred try wood art, but he only managed in nearly taking his thumb off. Eventually, with the image of Kiku's futuristic street still rooted in his brain, he decided to write. At first he wrote short stories with disjointed English that Matthew corrected. Then, as his English grew beyond that of a fifth grade level, he discovered new ways to describe people and places. He tried, with the soft instruction of Matthew, to describe simple events with a tiny plot. There was little to do to help Alfred, because he wasn't dumb; just ignorant. Matthew only nudged Alfred along, giving him books and pointers. Alfred discovered a new sense of pride; he could write. And he could write _well. _

He picked up the image of Kiku's from the back of his mind and described that world; seething with life and light. Yet, with light there are always shadows. He grew giddy with excitement when Matthew or Arthur read it. Arthur was also very fond of books, but his right hand had cramped too tightly to hold a pen right, and so he resorted to chiseling wood.

He could wrap his fingers around a dull knife because its hilt was fat and thick. He explained it that way, but Kiku, his eyes still pinned to his painting, listened. He knew it was because Arthur had lost faith in his imagination and talents as a writer.

The story took off and became a highlight of Alfred's days. Before he knew it, a thousand pages and a year had passed already. Alfred was called, on a chilled winter day lacking any snow or beauty, up to the main officer's desk. He timidly entered, looking around the room. It was simple; a mahogany desk in the center, a window behind it, and a frosty officer looking at Alfred. He gestured for him to sit down.

"So, boy… Cigarette?" He offered one to Alfred. Alfred shook his head, politely declining. "Your loss… As I was saying, word has come in that you did not commit the murder."

Alfred's eyes widened.

"No, no, not at all, boy. But you came very close. We have surveyed footage that was otherwise lost and we discovered that while you did drunkenly beat the poor bartender to a pulp and destroy much of the merchandise, it was not you who pulled the trigger but a third party."

Alfred nodded, hardly daring to speak.

"What I'm saying is, that your term here has been shortened. Since you committed no murder besides the damage of the bar's property, you will be admitted to leave sooner…" He slid a paper across to Alfred. Who took it and looked through, finding how long he had left.

A happiness flowered inside of him. He could go home, see old friends, he was not guilty.

Then, the flower wilted. He would miss Kiku and Matthew and Arthur. He had made great friends in the place least expected. He placed the file back on the desk and thanked the man. He was dismissed shortly thereafter.

Over dinner, Alfred told the group about it.

"Am I crazy? That I want to stay here?" Alfred frowned, looking at the hulk of burned meat on his plate. He wouldn't miss the meals.

Kiku's pale lips formed into a tiny smile.

"We'll miss you, too, Alfred. When I get out and when Matthew does, we'll look you up, for sure. Don't forget about us."

"I still have a year," Alfred said, shuffling his feet, "I don't think I can forget you. Jail time is kind of hard to forget."

Matthew sawed at the meat with a plastic fork to no avail and resorted to picking it up and gnawing into it.

"You still didn't answer my question, though." Alfred looked around, wanting to know if he had at least some scrap of sanity left.

"Alfred," Arthur looked over him, "It's fine, you're alright."

"But-"

"Don't but me. Al, even if it is a lie, it doesn't matter. The whole world goes by just fine believing any lies that suit their likings. And don't give me any shit on how you don't want to be like the rest of the world; because face it. You aren't some special butterfly, you can try to be, you can be remembered, but you're still humanity. You aren't stuck in traffic, you are the traffic."

"Poetic," Kiku said, "Why don't you write anymore? Buy a typewriter."

Arthur shrugged, "I'm not any good."

Alfred watched the green eyes go from vigor to dull, throbbing pain in a matter of seconds. He hardly wrote a word that night.

Goldfield found Alfred a much better target than Matthew. He scoured the halls that night, walking on patrol with his nose stuck in the air.

"Shove your pointy nose up your ass." Matthew sneered, and the hall chortled quietly. Goldfield rounded on Matthew, staring at him wildly. He was about to say something when Alfred, the cell right next door, moved up to the bars.

"Hey, stop it, Goldfield. He was making a joke, can't you see? Or is your nose in the way?" He dared.

Goldfield grinned, but noticed that his nose was indeed beak-like.

He stomped over, taking extra care to smack the ground with his metal boots and rattle the bars. Alfred slunk back.

"Sticking up for the druggie, eh?"

"Stop calling us that, asshole."

"Hole? Oh into the Hellhole? Is that what you want?" Goldfield pushed his key into the cell and slid it open, snatching the story from Alfred's hands. "What's this….?"

"Hey—you can't take that!" Alfred reached for it. Goldfield brought his palm against Alfred's cheek. The sound resounded through the hall. Matthew rose from his bed and beat against the bars.

"Stop it! Stop it! He didn't do anything!" He cried.

Goldfield felt the urge to rip up the manuscript, but instead dropped it back onto the desk. He found the folder the officer had handed Alfred. He picked it up, rifling through the files.

"What's this…?"

"It's mine." Alfred said, rubbing his jaw and standing. He was hardly taller than Goldfield, even with those elevator shoes.

"Oh?" Goldfield dropped it back on the desk, "What do you plan to-"

Alfred brought his fist crashing down on the officer's jaw, hardly fearing, only hating.

The man stumbled back, his hat had fallen off. He grabbed Alfred's shoulder and shoved him out of the door, "Three weeks, bastard, three weeks," he hissed and pushed him to the Hellhole.

Matthew watched, wishing he had never opened his stupid mouth. He went back inside, closing his eyes and laying down on the bed. He felt sick with himself.

The Hellhole was rightfully named. Alfred was in the back of the small room, his knees up to his chest. He held his legs closer to him. The first five days he didn't get any company, aside from his own mind trying to comfort him in the dark, silent enclosure. He didn't cry. He imagined being free, hardly waiting for his release. He regretted ever wanting to stay. Yet, even if he was outside, there would always be people like Goldfield poisoning the streets, abusing wives, abusing power, abusing children…

On the sixth day, a gentler man, the one who gave Matthew the cigarette, pushed in a tray of food. He smiled kindly at Alfred, who pulled the tray in and devoured the food, hardly tasting it. He swallowed the water in a single gulp. He was only allowed a few cups a day.

The next few days, up until the fourteenth, the officer would push in the food wordlessly. By the end of the second week, he whispered, "Alfred…?"

"Yeah?" Alfred said, surprised at how crooked his voice sounded.

"You know that kid, Matthew?"

"'Course I do." Alfred stopped scratching his beard and stared in horror. "What why?"

"I'm really sorry but—but…"

"Spit it out!" Alfred rose to his knees, peering through the peephole into the bright blue eyes of the man.

"He's dead."

"You lair. You're lying."

"No, he was murdered."

"What—by who?"

"Kirkland, the convicted murderer," He stopped, fumbling with the keys, "That's why you're being let out early. You weren't rightfully put in here for three weeks. We're putting in Arthur here instead."

Alfred stared in shock and fear as the man pulled the door open. He winced at the onslaught of light and rose shakily to his feet, which felt as though they had met the end of a sledgehammer. The man helped him stand, leading him away. Bits of food still stuck to Alfred's facial hair. Coming in, blood dripping down his shirt and a wild, nasty look in his eyes, was Arthur.

"I'LL KILL YOU. YOU MURDERER. YOU KILLED MATTHEW!" Alfred hollered, ripping free of his officer and attacking Arthur, groping for the neck or any soft spot.

"I didn't do it—" Arthur hollered, kneeing Alfred's groin.

"You liar. A liar AND a murderer, so Mr. I-didn't-do-it, why are there blood stains on your shirt? Huh?" He grabbed Arthur shirt and shook him. Arthur's head whipped back and banged the floor. Black spots danced before his vision. He reached up and found Alfred's neck, guided by years of experience.

"I didn't—Goldfield—did—it was by me and he b-blamed me."

"That's enough!" One officer decided to step in. He tore the two apart. "Don't accuse an officer for your disgusting crimes, and you, don't pick fights." He said, as though chastising rambunctious toddlers.

Alfred spat at his face.

He didn't bat an eye.

Arthur stood, sliding into the Hellhole on his own. Alfred rubbed his neck. Dark bruises swelled around the afflicted area.

They led him back up. Lunch was still going. Alfred stumbled to the table where he found Kiku, sitting alone with a grim expression. He hardly smiled anymore.

"Oh, welcome back, Alfred." Kiku said, looking over at him.

"Where's Matthew?"

"Dead, they're burying him,"

"No, no he isn't dead. Everyone keeps lying to me." He brought his fist down on the table, rattling Kiku's tray.

"Well I'm not lying. What can I do about it? Think, really, I can't get out and let you see him. You aren't a family member of his. You don't have a special excuse to get out."

Alfred began to cry, he covered his face and his shoulders hunched up, shaking with each sob.

Kiku reached across, but Alfred jerked away.

"Alfred… I'm sorry…"

"I know… Just… Did Arthur do it?"

A pause.

"Who knows?"


End file.
